


The Little Bit of Paris in our Window

by Afterword



Series: The Road to Montreuil [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: 90'S, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Guitarist!Grantaire, M/M, Road Trip, This one will be smuttier at last
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:26:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Afterword/pseuds/Afterword
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The consequences of kissing Enjolras unfold. Grantaire is sure he's earned Enjolras's hatred for the rest of his life, but is that really how the blond man feels?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Pirate Stumbling on a Treasure

**Author's Note:**

> And here we are, you and me, on the last part. 
> 
> As I have told to those of you who follow me on tumblr, I will be posting shorter chapters this time around, but I hope to be posting more often than before. As a result, this will probably have more chapters than the last two. But it IS the last part, so stuff will happen.
> 
> To you who stuck around, I say thank you so much! Believe me when I say I wish I could hug you and kiss you.
> 
> I love you all and I hope you keep enjoying this.
> 
> Now enough of talking, here's the chapter.

There is an abandoned house in the outskirts of Paris, concealed underneath the trees of the forest in which its roots lie. These roots are perhaps as old as those of the very same trees, for the house in ancient and resilient. The walls are still strong after their unknown but surely many years, as well as the floors, the ceiling, its very structure.

Antiqueness and abandonment are reflected in the details only. The ivy that grows behind and through the stones which make up her walls, the wild flowers that invade her small garden, the murkiness of her windows. It’s a reluctant abandon that sees careful maintenance once in a while.

The house is for sale. It’s been so for at least five years. Grantaire found it at the time when he’d first found himself homeless, and to him it was Heaven. Since then he’s come back several time, and always finds it the same way he left it. More importantly, though, it is always unoccupied.

When he first got back to the camping site, after a night spent at a five star hotel with Enjolras, nursing his wounds, both he and Enjolras walked in on a heated discussion involving all the remaining friends. They argued about where they should stay once they arrived in Paris, since staying at their own houses or anywhere near it was out of the question.

As it turned out, _Les Amis_ were Parisian. For some reason, it fit them.

Courfeyrac, in particular, was most distressed. His body was against the back door of Jehan’s van, as if he was its security guard making sure no one got in before they settled the matter. He spoke as if his whole road trip was in peril. Unsurprisingly, his distressed was all due to Enjolras, “because he’s going to find a way to go to his apartment and he’s going to go to the Musain and get his hands on a newspaper. He’ll hear something he doesn’t like – because there’s always something –, leave, and before we know it we’ll all be going after him!”

Grantaire, dreading the outcome Courfeyrac pictured, waltzed in with his solution. Everyone accepted it instantly. The prospect of a beautiful house in the middle of nowhere thrilled Courfeyrac, who abandoned his frown for his trademark smile. Overjoyed as he was that Grantaire had solved all of his problems,  he seemed about to kiss the guitarist. He never did, however. Instead, he chose to celebrate with Jehan, wrapping the boy in his arms. “Combeferre, do _not_ take your eyes off our marble leader once we’re there, or he will escape and start a revolution without us!” he said once he pulled his lips away from Jehan’s.

Now that they have arrived, Grantaire is alone in one of the top floor bedrooms. There is a black iron bed against the wall adjacent to the tall window, with a comfortable mattress and sheets. They might be dusty from the time spent with no body to embrace; yet dust in no way hinders comfort. Still, he choses the floor instead, because it’s not that kind of comfort that he seeks. He lies there on his back, looking at the ceiling but contemplating nothing. His eyes are opened out of mere habit. He sees only the inside of his own mind, that dark place that will forever haunt him. For company, he has a bottle of wine in his hand, taken from the remnants of the wine cellar that belong to this very ancient house – or perhaps one he left behind on his previous stay, he isn’t sure.

It’s nighttime, although whether it’s the early evening or almost dawn he doesn’t know. Unsurprisingly, he is very, very drunk. But in his head he retains the knowledge that he must stay there. He’s waiting for Jehan.

It’s only in the morning that Jehan arrives. Grantaire has not moved an inch every since he fell on the floor for the first time. He still has his legs slightly opened apart; one hand haphazardly tucked behind his head while the other holds the now empty bottle beside his waist.

“Grantaire!” The boy exclaims in a high-pitched voice that is entirely hostile to Grantaire’s hangover head. As the door is on the wall adjacent to the window but opposite to the bed, Grantaire is blinded by the sun and cannot fully see Jehan, only a black figure that walks the way he does and talks with his voice. “Did something happen? Did you pass out?” In a lower voice, surely intended for only his own ears, the poet adds: “Why did no one come to check on you?”

Propping himself on his elbows, Grantaire tries a comforting smile. “Don’t worry about me. I was just getting something to drink and got a little carried away in my desire to forget life. It happens occasionally, but I endure.”

Pity stares back at him when he glances into Jehan’s eyes. Morning has made him too sober to take it, so he regards the white blur of sunlight instead. It makes his eyes water, but it isn’t unpleasant.

“But why would you want to forget life? Aren’t you having fun with us?”

Jehan is seated in a lotus position beside Grantaire now, twirling a strand of his hair in one of his fingers while he bites his lip. The boy is genuinely saddened by the predicament in which he’s found Grantaire, the corners of his eyes drooped in wrinkles.

Grantaire waves a dismissive hand in the air.

“It’s just something I do. Never mind that. How is Courfeyrac?” He asks.

The inquiry manages a remarkable transformation in Jehan’s features. The sadness is gone entirely, to be replaced by a jubilant grin and brightness of the eyes. And then a blush settles in his cheeks and he looks away, chuckling softly.

“He’s quite amazingly all right. He’s with Enjolras. He said—“ Jehan stops abruptly, holds his lips agape for a moment after the words stop tumbling out, and when he closes them, they make a soft ‘plop’ noise.

Grantaire, for his part, cannot help but perk up at the mention of Enjolras’s name. They have barely exchanged more than a couple of sentences between each other since they woke up at the hotel two days ago. In fact, they were so few that Grantaire remembers every sentence precisely the way it was said. ‘Get ready, we need to get back to the camping site’ Enjolras said when he waltzed into the balcony and interrupted Grantaire’s playing. To this, Grantaire, still in his morning bliss, replied with an excited ‘I can play again!’, which Enjolras reacted to with a mere nod of his head.

This nod was all Grantaire needed to snap out of that morning trance of sorts, wherein he had not a care in the world and the dark parts of him did not have a place to stand. Enjolras, with that marble nod, brought him back to reality, where the words “Grantaire…Stop…Please” were uttered into an endless well, destined to echo and echo forever.

Grantaire’s solution? Avoiding Enjolras like the plague. It might seem childish, but nevertheless, Enjolras seemed to be on the same page as he on this one. They afforded each other quiet politeness whenever they were forced to be in the same place, and then went on with their lives. Enjolras read his book, played cards with his friends, talked and laughed occasionally. Grantaire played his guitar - albeit considerably less enthusiastically so – and signed up for a competition in Montreuil.

On the outside, they were equally indifferent to one another. On the inside, however, Grantaire was light years away from ever matching Enjolras. He thought about his Apollo every waking second, and dreamt of him when taken by unconsciousness. The magnificent taste of Enjolras’s lips and the hint of his tongue are still cruelly clear in every fibber of Grantaire’s being. Just like those words that had torn them apart.

 _Grantaire_.

_Stop._

_Please._

“He said what?” Grantaire quirks an eyebrow, hoping that doing so will suffice to loosen Jehan’s mouth.

 “That there has been an increase in the uh… _sexual tension_ in the group, which he says can only mean one thing since it should’ve decreased because, well, _ours_ is not mostly under control.”

Grantaire loses the strength in his arms and lets his head fall back down on the floor. “Do you guys own some kind of sexual tension radar or something?”

Jehan gives him a sly smile.

 _It_ _’_ _s all just me,_ Grantaire thinks to himself. Yet he is curious about what was Courfeyrac’s conclusion, so he refrains from telling this to Jehan.

“What does it mean then?” He asks instead.

“That Courfeyrac has a nine to ten chance of having a black eye right now,” Grantaire frowns. “To Courfeyrac, it means Enjolras is in need of some ‘Courf Counseling’.”

The information takes a moment to sink in. Once it does, Grantaire bursts out laughing. The laughter increases gradually, as Jehan joins him, until it comes to a point where neither of them can feel their stomachs any longer and they just lie next to each other in shared numbness.

It doesn’t even cross Grantaire mind to ask why Courfeyrac feels Enjolras is responsible of the increase in the sexual tension. After all, Éponine had made it pretty clear that no one had ever witnessed Enjolras having any feelings of the sexual kind.

“So what did you want to ask of me?” Jehan asks after a while.

 “Would you mind helping me write the lyrics to the song I am composing for the contest?”

Jehan is flattered by the request. He smiles from cheek to cheek and envelopes Grantaire in an embrace that is both awkward and uncomfortable, since they are lying down on their backs on the floor, side by side, in easy companionship.

"Of course I will!" He exclaims into the hug. "Can I hear you play the melody, _please_?"

A parent never strays very far from their children. Grantaire's guitar is his child, and as such, he has only to stretch out his arm to pull the instrument from under the bed. As if in an act of sympathy, his hangover retreats, permitting him to concede to Jehan's wish with ease and do something that will undoubtedly lift up his current low spirits.

Paying close attention to Jehan's reactions, Grantaire plays the first chord. It's with surprise that Grantaire finds he feels nervous. It seems he cares about Jehan's opinion on his original piece a great deal more than he ever thought he would.  As the boy listens intently, gaze intent on Grantaire's trained fingers, holding his hands together as if forcing them not to clap, Grantaire realizes why.

In little more than a week, Jehan became his friend. Not only Jehan - all of the others as well. Even Enjolras, regardless of what happened that night at the hotel. It was an incredible mistake. A friendship such as the one he feels he now shares with these young men and woman is unlike any other he has ever experienced in his life before. They are so tight-knit, such a union, that he finds it completely ludicrous that they even let him in, in the first place. He has but his sarcastic comments to contribute with.

Grantaire is like a pirate who has been looking for a treasure his whole life, and ended up _stumbling_ upon it rather than discovering it. He comes to this realization as he reaches the final chords of his song. Jehan applauds, at last, filled with excitement.

Just as one realization has hit him, another comes in its trail: he values Enjolras's friendship - even if it is as unrequited as his love - absurdly so. He cannot imagine enduring a life without Enjolras’s frustrated words being thrown at him.

"It's beautiful, Grantaire! A sorrowful piece, and yet still so romantic. I'm flooding with ideas already! Do you know what you want the lyrics to say?"

Grantaire places his guitar gently on the floor, at his feet. Poet and guitarist have been seated since Grantaire first reached for his guitar, Grantaire in a lotus position while Jehan seats on top of his legs. The intricate position does not seem to make him the least bit uncomfortable.

"I did something really fucking stupid when I was at the hotel with Enjolras. He gave me some pain killers and they must've really fucked with my head..." He confesses to Jehan instead, running his hands through his face and his head with a slight aggressiveness in the move. Frustrated with himself. Jehan regards him curiously in return, so he feels he can open up to the boy. And that is what he does.

He narrates the events of that bittersweet night to his poet friend.

 _What a wonderful night it was_ , he thinks to himself first. _What a disastrous night it was_ , the same voice objects.

"I know he doesn't see me as a friend. He must hate me. All I ever do is try to put out his idealistic flame with my skeptic ways and my drinking. He hates it that I drink. But he still tolerated me, and that tolerance is still infinitely better than indifference, which is how he treats me now. Don’t get me wrong, I have been avoiding him myself, but that is only because I..."

Jehan waits for him to continue, but the exasperated sigh that Grantaire lets out is like the final period of the unfinished sentence.

The poet shifts closer to Grantaire then.

"I honestly don't know why he is avoiding you, to be honest. If Enjolras has a problem with you, he will not hesitate to tell you. He can't help it, that's just how he is. He _never_ stays quiet about it." Jehan says with conviction, yet when he finishes speaking his features suggests he is quite lost.

"So I broke Enjolras."

Jehan goes on, with a small chuckle. "Which suggests he isn't actually mad at you. But he clearly isn't happy with you either--"

"Is he ever?"

“—How exactly he feels about you at the moment, I haven’t a clue. Maybe Courf will enlighten us. Or maybe you could just ask him.” Jehan continues.

“Oh, he’s mad at me, I know it. He _asked_ me to stop kissing him. And then he turned into a marble statue and never spoke to me again. He’s mad. He hates me.”

“That’s the thing, though,” Jehan smirks. “He _asked_ you to stop. He didn’t rip you away from him or punch you. He asked politely. How mad could you possibly have made him?”

Grantaire is still ruminating on Jehan’s words when the poet leaves to meet Courfeyrac by the lake in the woods. He thinks maybe he should do as Jehan says and approach Enjolras. Only he knows he cannot ask him what he really wants to ask. Perhaps he could start with something light, like “who came first the chicken or the egg?”

The thought makes him laugh as he pictures it, and his laughter echoes in that empty bedroom where he lays on his own, because Enjolras would more likely than not have a long intricate and philosophical answer to that question.

The thing is, there are no limits to what Grantaire would give to hear Enjolras give him that answer. Any answer, in fact. Any word directed to him would suffice at this point, even if it were a hateful one.

He feels like there’s a hand in his heart, squeezing it relentlessly, trying to turn it to dust. Grantaire knows only one way to make it go away.

Slowly, because his body is still mostly covered in bruising, he stands up and leaves the room, heading for the wine cellar in the basement.

 

 

 


	2. Legacy 1.0 (Courf Couseling)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fact that Grantaire manages to get Enjolras to acknowledge his presence again has to count as progress. But, with the help of a very grateful Marius, it doesn't take long before things get a little out of hand...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I would be updating faster, didn't I? I spent my whole weekend writing this, making the most out of the free time that I still have (and which I am just about to lose, unfortunately).
> 
> This is part one of the chapter, so the summary involves both parts, which means some of the things implied on it might not happen yet. You'll just have to stick around to read it.
> 
> And now, the chapter.

_“His Majesty du Courfeyrac requests your immediate presence in his and his poet lover Jean “Jehan” Prouvaire’s chambers (first floor, third door on the right)._

_P.S.: Do not, under any circumstances, tip the squire. He is most incompetent and thus unworthy of your coin, kind sir.”_

An expectant and curious Marius Pontmercy is staring intently between Grantaire and the note he holds in his hand. He has to read it twice. Having been caught completely by surprise the first time around, he failed to take in the brilliance of it. The note wasn’t just brilliant in its content, but also in it’s package.  The envelope from which Grantaire extracted it was sealed in crimson wax, stamped with what to Grantaire could be an actual royal seal but was most likely a family’s crest.

Undoubtedly, Courfeyrac was a creature unlike any other.

The _squire_ quirked an eyebrow once Grantaire read it the second time around and sniggered to himself. He had just climbed up the stairs from the wine cellar -having already drunk half the bottle on his way up – when Marius caught up with him and delivered him the envelope.

“Well, what does it say?” Marius asks, leaning over Grantaire to try and see the note.

“You didn’t read it?”

“I wanted to, but I couldn’t open the envelope without ruining the seal.” He says with a pout.

Grantaire grants him a sly smile and hands him the note. Marius opens his lips agape, as if he’s turned into an actual squire who is astounded to be deemed worthy of reading a lord’s note. Grantaire is halfway up the stairs to the first floor, curiosity propelling his feet forward, when he hears Marius bellowing “UNWORTHY? I DO HIM A FAVOR AND HE SAYS I’M INCOMPETENT?”

Marius’ wrath is so loud that when Grantaire opens the door to Courfeyrac and Jehan’s _chambers_ , he finds the former laughing hysterically.

“Close the door and lock it, quickly! Or he’ll murder me!” Courfeyrac says urgently, although he looks thoroughly amused.

“Marius?” Grantaire asks instead of obliging.

“He has a tendency for dramatics.”

“He’s not the only one.” Jehan say to Grantaire, gracing him with a playful wink, voicing Grantaire’s exact thoughts. Jehan is on the opposite side of the bedroom, exactly where one would think to find a poet: seating on a desk, where his notebook rests upon the wooden surface. The pencil, which he must have used to write Courfeyrac’s note, is on his smiling mouth, where his teeth are nibbling it.

“Just close the door!”

On Courfeyrac’s insistence, Grantaire closes the door behind him and locks it. It creaks and resists him, as if unwilling to let itself be manhandled by a drunk. In the end, Grantaire wins and turns back to the two young men left in the room with him.

This room is very different from the one he’d occupied the previous night. The difference doesn’t lie on the layout or the furniture, but on the way it’s been occupied. There are bouquets of flowers in several parts of the room (on the bedside tables, on the desk, on the windowsill and even on the floor), the window is opened, letting in the fresh air and the warm, almost nonexistent but still inviting summer breeze. It’s late in the afternoon, and the window faces the full moon that begins to make itself clearer and clearer as the blue of the sky turns darker.

The difference, then, lies on the fact that this room has been left with no traces of ever having been abandoned. If it weren’t for the empty picture frames, no one would’ve ever been able to tell this wasn’t their actual room.

“I thought you two were on a date by the lake.” Grantaire says.

Courfeyrac is standing with his back to Grantaire, facing the tall mirror on the big wooden wardrobe doors. As such, they can still see each other on the reflection, and Grantaire sees him exchange a look with Jehan.

“We decided to take everyone out to Paris for dinner and drinks instead,” Courfeyrac says as he finishes buttoning his shirt, dotted in different colors. “Jehan, my love, will you help me with my bowtie?”

The poet extracts the pencil from his mouth and settles it on top of his notebook. He stands up, straightening his trousers, and goes to aid his – Grantaire assumes, from all the lovey-dovey-ness and the mention of _‘his poet lover’_ on the note – boyfriend. Grantaire notices, when he sees them both side-by-side, that even Jehan is wearing slightly more formal clothing. The yellow of his shirt still contrasts quite horribly with the light blue of his trousers, but he has tuck in the shirt properly, and his boots look way cleaner than Grantaire has ever seen them look before.

“ _Everyone_?” Grantaire leans against the door, crossing his arms while still holding on to his bottle of wine.

Courfeyrac is a little taller than Jehan. His lips are at the same level as Jehan’s nose as the boy does his bowtie, and so Courfeyrac reaches out and kisses his nose lightly. The boy blushes instantly, sneaking a furtive look at Grantaire, as if making sure he’s still in the room with them.

“I thought you said you didn’t want Enjolras to step foot in Paris?” He tries his best to sound nonchalant, but it’s a feeble attempt nonetheless. He can tell by the knowing look Courfeyrac and Jehan exchange between them. It lasts less than a fraction of a second, but doesn’t go by unnoticed.

“Enjolras isn’t coming.” Jehan avows, patting the now impeccably done bowtie. Courfeyrac inspects it in the mirror and satisfied with it, shrugs into his suspenders. He then turns to face Grantaire.

“Why not?” Grantaire already knows the answer. It makes his blood boil with fury. He asks anyway, wanting to hear someone confirm what he already knows.

“Because, as it turns out, Enjolras is a chicken. Better he stays, this way we won’t have to take his bad humor with us. He can be a real nuisance when he wants to be. But speaking of Enjolras…” Courfeyrac comes closer to Grantaire, pats him on the shoulder and regards him with a look that transpires with an admiration Grantaire is fairly sure he did nothing to earn. “Let’s not forget why I summoned you here.”

Jehan is back at his desk, scribbling furiously at his notebook, whilst Grantaire is being led further into the room by Courfeyrac’s sure hand. He lets himself be steered, still with half a mind to ask Courfeyrac why exactly he thinks Enjolras is a “chicken”. They come at a stop near the wardrobe and he sees that Courfeyrac’s opened suitcase, filled to the brim with clothes, is inside it.

“Why was that exactly?” Grantaire frowns, staring as Courfeyrac sorts through his clothes.

“What is your favorite color?” Courfeyrac asks instead.

“I don’t have one.”

“Oh, come on. The one you wear more often, then.”

Grantaire hesitates, finding all of this mildly irritating, as he hates beating around the bush – despite doing plenty of that himself more often than not. He crosses his arms and says, “Dark green.”

For some reason, that answer earns him a wiggle of the eyebrows from Courfeyrac right before he extracts a shirt of the same color from his suitcase, along with a pair of trousers that he’s not sure if they are a deeply dark blue or black. He hands them to Grantaire.

“Put those on. We’re going out into the city and you’ve been wearing those clothes the whole week.”

“Actually—“

Courfeyrac shushes him with a finger to his lips. “Don’t argue with me on this. Don’t you want to get laid?”

“That’s an intricate question.”

Courfeyrac tilts his head as if in question, although his eyes tell the world he has no doubts – he knows exactly why Grantaire used the word ‘intricate’.

His knowing stare begins to make Grantaire’s stomach tighten itself in a knot, so he concedes with a loud groan and begins to strip his own clothing. Predictably, Courfeyrac leans against the bed frame, facing Grantaire, with his arms crossed over his chest, contemplating every inch of naked skin that Grantaire shows as he changes from dirty, ragged clothes to fancy, fresh ones. Jehan sees none of this, still entirely focused on the words he keeps writing in his notebook. Grantaire wonders if those are the lyrics to his song that he is putting together.

“Angel lips,” Courfeyrac says after a while in silence. “Aren’t you confident about your skills as a lover?” Grantaire halts his movements for a moment in order to focus his attention on Courfeyrac. “Because if you aren’t, I can vouch for them.”

Jehan groans loudly from his desk, but doesn’t raise his head.

“Of course I am.” Grantaire manages to sound as if he’s offended that Courfeyrac would doubt his self-confidence. “I’ve always been a heartbreaker.”

In truth, it had been quite the contrary, most of his life. He never had much luck in love. And, contrary to popular belief, that did not make him luckier in other affairs such as gambling or money. All he has are his hundred francs, which, now that he thinks about it, he earned in a game of poker.

“Wait.” Grantaire deadpans suddenly. He stops moving, freezes holding the flier of Courfeyrac’s trousers midway. “Is this a ‘Courf Intervention’?”

In lieu of reply, Courfeyrac offers him the most pretentious grin Grantaire has ever seen, showing his set of perfect with teeth, producing dimples in his cheeks. Grantaire feels the urge to flip him the middle finger, but refrains from doing that, choosing to finish zipping his trousers instead. Courfeyrac, for all his obnoxiousness, is the personification of a ray of sunshine. He doubts anyone, barring Enjolras, could remain in a bad mood for long when in his presence. Courfeyrac’s grins, no matter how sly, or pretentious, or mischievous, have a way of infecting people with elation.

And so, Grantaire too is infected. He’s forgotten about the bottle of wine he brought with him there, discarded on the floor. Courfeyrac’s clothes are softer than his, surely much more recent than his. He doesn’t remember the last time he acquired a new piece of clothing, and the times he actually goes so far as to wash them are almost equally as rare.

“You look positively dapper.” Courfeyrac compliments as Grantaire inspects himself in the mirror. He doesn’t agree. His skin is still mostly bruised from the beating he took that night at the party. Now that the skin is no longer swollen, the red has been replaced with tones of purple, some darker than others, some already turning yellow. The worst is the patch of skin under his right eye. It makes his eyes impossibly blue in contrast with the dark tint of his bruised skin.

Additionally, his hair is hopelessly untamed, and his scruff is now closer to being an actual beard than a scruff.

“Unlike me, you don’t have a black eye like Jehan predicted. So I’m guessing your other ‘Courf Intervention’ went well,” Grantaire says, and Courfeyrac shrugs. “Oh, come on. If you want me to talk, you’ve got to give me something in return.”

“If I tell you then how are you supposed to trust me enough to confide in me?”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows into his forehead. “I’m not going to confide in you, there’s nothing to confide.”

Courfeyrac looks at him with an expression that perfectly portrays how offended he feels that Grantaire thinks he can deceive him that easily. Then, in resignation, he sighs, uncrosses his arms and meanders behind Grantaire. Hands on Grantaire’s shoulders, their eyes meet in their reflections.

“I’ll do the talking then.” He says, as if he’d known all along it would come to this. “I think you could have whatever and whomever you wanted with those angel lips, Grantaire.” Grantaire rolls his eyes, disbelievingly. Jehan coughs loudly, this time raising his head to face the other two. Courfeyrac winks at him with a smirk. “Yes! That’s what I think, and I speak from experience. And I think, I _think_ , you could even have the Marble Lover of Liberty fall on his knees in front of you, if you tried hard enough.”

That makes Grantaire laugh. It’s a dry laugh with no humor behind it. It rips away the smile from Courfeyrac’s lips. It never crosses Grantaire’s mind to think that perhaps, like that night at the party when their positions were switched, Courfeyrac could be speaking with some knowledge that Grantaire doesn’t know about, and which he feels is not his place to reveal. He is so convinced that Enjolras despises him - more so now that he knows the blond man is refusing to spend time with his friends just so he doesn’t have to be in the same place as Grantaire - that anything which counteracts his belief goes by unnoticed.

“Laugh all you want, dumbass. I’m done with you two. It’s like I’m talking to children.” Courfeyrac wails, slapping Grantaire across the back of his head, abandoning the ignorant man to approach his boyfriend. He envelops his arms around Jehan from behind, softly and tenderly making the boy cease his frenetic writing. Jehan smiles, more than willing to give up writing for Courfeyrac’s touch, and raises his head to meet his boyfriend’s lips.

Grantaire is too nauseated – and jealous, although he would never admit it - by the cute in the room. Without them noticing, despite making no attempts to be inconspicuous, Grantaire picks his wine bottle from the floor and leaves.

 

 

*          *          *

 

 

“Enjolras,” Grantaire breathes out the name rather than actually saying it. Describing the drunk thought process that preceded the utterance of that name, would most likely take a century. Yet it stopped exactly there. He never thought about what he’d say once he’d gotten Enjolras’s attention. So when blue eyes bore into his, unreadable in their stare, what comes out of Grantaire mouth is: “Which would you rather have: a face-long ear or an eye on your knee?”

The only reason he’s managed to get close enough to Enjolras to speak to him is because Combeferre, unwilling to stay behind to babysit him, insisted that he had to come along with his friends to Paris. Somehow, Grantaire doubts the fact that they had ended up being forced to sit beside each other in the van is a simple coincidence. What it is, though, is nerve-wracking. He is aware of every inch of his body, as well as every inch of Enjolras’s. He feels shocks whenever Joly’s driving causes the van to make a brisk move and they can’t help from touching each other. One second. Less than a second, even. But Grantaire feels it even if it’s just a scrape.

Immediately after he’s uttered the question, Grantaire cringes. Enjolras simply keeps looking at him with that same unreadable expression. It’s quite the victory, Grantaire thinks, when Enjolras actually deems the question worthy of an answer.

“Neither.” He says.

“That’s not a proper answer. You have to choose.”

It’s like he’s purposefully seeking further embarrassment.

“I choose not to choose.” Enjolras speaks with a tone of finality, so Grantaire withdraws into silence again, one that lasts the remainder of the ride to Paris.

As Courfeyrac makes a point to emphasize, they go to the side of Paris that is furthest away from where they live. Yet still he insists that everyone keep their eyes on Enjolras, in case he escapes in a cab and heads straight to the Musain. They all nod vehemently, and Courfeyrac seems to be content with it.

They choose a small restaurant in one of the side streets, with a small esplanade. They occupy most it if, taking up four of the tables. Only two other tables remain vacant once they’re settled, and they’re right behind Marius. Such information is of key importance because, shortly after their first courses are served, a great coincidence happens.

Cosette, and the man Grantaire remembers to be her protective father, sit on the table right behind the poor love-struck boy. At present, Pontmercy is delightedly eating his meal, oblivious of the fact that the object of his affections, and frankly, of his obsession, is right behind him.

“Marius,” Grantaire beckons. The boy looks up immediately and it’s clear that the afternoon’s events haven’t been forgotten. He’s even refused to order Grantaire wine. No matter, Grantaire thinks, what he’s about to do will earn him a lifetime of free booze. “I have really good news for you. But if you want to hear them you’re going to have to hold on to your chair and close your mouth.”

Marius looks at him in utter confusion. “What?”

“Just do it.” Joly, who is seated beside him, says.

Marius does as Grantaire’s told him, although with a suspicious frown.

“Cosette is right behind you.”

There’s a moment of utter silence, wherein nobody moves or talks or breathes. They just stare at Marius, waiting for his reaction. When it comes, it is worthy of the stares.

Marius Pontmercy is an individual that for the subtlety that he lacks, he makes up with awkwardness. Due to his handsome looks, this awkwardness can be endearing at times, but not always. Sometimes it is as humorous to others as it is utter embarrassment for the boy. This is one of those times.

If Grantaire were to put himself in Marius’s shoes, he’d imagine this moment, to him, equals that of the man who knows he’s about to be run over by a car. He has a moment where time seems to stop, and then what has to happen, happens, it is an utter disaster.

Marius turns around brusquely. He moves with such vigor that he makes the waiter that is passing by him at the moment fall down on the floor, the tray in his hand, full of bowls of soup and plates of food, goes flying forwards. All of it lands on Cosette and her father.

Cosette yelps when the soup lands on her. She’s wearing a white dress that reaches her knees, and her hair is loose on her back, almost reaching her waist. Her yelp causes Marius to jump upright, almost sending his table flying too. Yet instead of rushing to her help, he freezes in his spot, admiring her with the most awe-stuck face Grantaire has ever seen on anyone before.

Everyone is giggling at the scene – but mostly at Marius -, Courfeyrac madly so. Grantaire stands up from his seat at the same time as Éponine. They look at each other, and he tries to convey to her that he wishes none of this made her hurt. He doesn’t know how, though, and before he knows it she’s leaving, saying she needs to use the bathroom. Right before Grantaire has approached Cosette, he sees Combeferre rushing after Éponine and that puts him more at ease with himself.

“Here, let me help you, mademoiselle.” Grantaire’s tone is only half sardonic when he speaks. He extends a hand with his own cloth napkin to help her clean off the soup from her skin and her dress.

“That won’t be necessary, monsieur.” Cosette’s father interjects, holding him away from his daughter with a surprisingly strong hold for a man of his age. His hair is completely white and his lips are unsmiling.

Cosette finally looks up from the mess of soup in her body. “Grantaire?” She asks in exclamation. Grantaire smiles at her and doesn’t miss the blush that comes to her cheeks when she glances at Pontmercy, who’s standing rigid as board beside him.

“This is my friend, Marius Pontmercy. He’s very sorry about the trouble he’s caused you.” Grantaire expects Marius to elaborate from there, but the boy seems to have turned into stone and lost his ability to talk. He has to elbow him in the ribs to make sure he’s still flesh and blood. “Aren’t you, Marius?”

“Yes, I’m truly very sorry—I –“

“I had just pointed out I knew the girl who was seating behind him, and when he turned to look he was so overwhelmed by your beauty – he didn’t tell me this but I could see it in his eyes – that he completely missed the waiter that was coming toward him!” Grantaire is astounded at how much effort he is putting into helping Marius. He even seems to be more eloquent than usual. But then again, he always did care about things when he was drunk that he wouldn’t otherwise. Drunkenness made him not only more eloquent but also significantly more dramatic.

Marius, for his part, turned embarrassingly red, not only in his cheeks but also in every inch of his skin that was visible. It made Grantaire smile in amusement to see someone who failed even more miserably at love affairs than he. At least he could keep a neutral face, most of the time, while inside a hurricane of feelings ensued. Focusing on helping Marius made it easier to forget about his own deplorable situation.

“Gentleman, we appreciate your help but it’s not necessary. If you don’t mind, we’d like to get back to our dinner.” Says Cosette’s father, clearly not amused at Grantaire’s advances on Marius’s behalf to his daughter.

“It’s fine, father. I know Grantaire. And it’s _very_ nice to meet you, Monsieur Marius.” Cosette smiles.

The poor boy seems to have transcended this life and reached Heaven. Suspecting he has lost the ability to speak again, Grantaire is already prepared to intervene on his behalf when Courfeyrac intercedes. “Oh, but you must join us! We’ve heard so much about your daughter, monsieur; we’re all very excited to meet you both! You can take the seats our friends Combeferre and Éponine vacated.”

“We don’t want to trouble you—“

“There’s no trouble. Come, sit with us.” Courfeyrac insists with his terribly bright smile, and Cosette’s father finally gives in.

Grantaire takes Éponine’s seat at the end of the table so Cosette will take his and be close to Marius. This, inconveniently, leaves _him_ facing Enjolras. It’s a sacrifice he is more than willing to make for the prospect of Marius’s gratitude, which will surely be translated into unlimited booze later on in the evening.

“Éponine and Combeferre left?” Marius asks.

“Oh, you know how young love is.” Courfeyrac says more to Cosette’s father than to Marius, as if he isn’t himself a young man in love. He allows a furtive look at Jehan, who is seated beside him, before adding. “Impatient and infinite.”

“Certainly.” Says Jean Valjean, as he later tells them to call him.

 The rest of the diner goes by smoothly, in pleasant conversation. Courfeyrac and Joly fill the conversation for the most part, trying to get Monsieur Valjean to engage with them in their trivial talk. Once, Enjolras speaks up, when the conversation strays and dangerously treads the threshold between triviality and politics. Surprisingly, or maybe not so much, what puts a stop to Enjolras’s words – Courfeyrac was already cringing -, is Grantaire.

He doesn’t know exactly what he did to provoke the man. He’s tried to be on his best behavior. His glass was only filled with wine twice (that he’s ordered despite Marius’s objections), he’s spoken no other word since they sat back down on the table, focusing on his delicious meal. He is only trying to leave no food to waste when he licks the knife he’s used to cut his chicken. Doing this does not even require him to make loud, irksome noises. Grantaire is but peacefully licking his knife and staring at Enjolras as he speaks about the current state of the economy – because he always pays attention when Enjolras speaks -, when the man cuts his train of words abruptly. The others expect him to continue, but all he does is glare at Grantaire and grit his teeth.

“My food is getting cold, I should eat it. Maybe politics are too heavy a subject to talk over diner.” He says.

Courfeyrac is as pleased by what Enjolras has just said as he is shocked. But he doesn’t ask, in fear that Enjolras change his mind. Marius, however, lacks this fear.

“Are you feeling well, Enjolras?”

Grantaire actually welcomes Marius’s question. He’s starting to have doubts about Enjolras’s well being too. He doesn’t seem to be acting much like himself as of late. _So I broke Enjolras_ , he remembers saying to Jehan earlier that day. He’d been only joking then, but now he’s starting to wonder.

“Splendid.” Enjolras assures.

Grantaire, who has kept the knife halted in his mouth as he watched the scene unfold, now goes back to licking the remainder of the grease in the knife.

“Can you please stop doing that?” Enjolras hisses.

“Why?”

“Because it’s bothering me and I would appreciate it if you stopped.”

Grantaire tilts his head to the side and narrows his eyes, concentrating on Enjolras’s, as if doing so would make it easier to read the other man’s mind. It seems to only do the opposite. The more he tries to read it, the harder Enjolras makes it for him.

“Your wish is my command, Apollo.”

When he places the knife on his plate, he feels Enjolras’s glare burning on his hand. He’s overcome by a mixture of feelings that go from unease that centers in his stomach, to irritation that mingles in his head, to contentment that bursts in his heart, and finally, to desire that burns in his crotch. Grantaire is positively overwhelmed, and such a heavy mixture of feelings that being _noticed_ again by his Apollo has produced in him, causes his boldness to increase. It’s this boldness that leads his tongue to snake out of his mouth and lick his lips, purposefully testing his ground. He notes that Enjolras’s eyes follow the movement of his tongue, and he hears the grunt the blond man lets escape from his mouth as he watches. The sound is filled to the brim with irritation so severe that it is verging on being wrathful.

Grantaire smiles slyly as he feels his burning desire spread from his crotch to every inch of his body. Enjolras is right there in front of him, and his eyes are acknowledging Grantaire’s presence with fervor. Who cares that it is anger that Enjolras harbors in his gaze? As long as he knows Grantaire is there.

“Am I still bothering you?” Grantaire’s tone is too casual for the thoughts and feelings that have taken over him. Hearing it, one would assume he was just thinking about how beautiful this restaurant is, when in fact he’s imagining himself reaching out to take hold of Enjolras and throw him onto the table, straddling his Apollo between his tights and kissing him the way Courfeyrac said he could.

“Yes.” Enjolras grunts.

“Well then, you said so yourself. You don’t like something? Look the other way.”

“You’re right in front of me.”

Grantaire sneers and downs the rest of the wine in his glass.

“Look down.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to Mariana, who is the one responsible for the existence of this fic in the first place. And thank you to every single one of you who take the time to read this, and even more so to those who leave me kudos and comments. By now you must know how much I appreciate it. I really really do!
> 
> Love you and see you next chapter!


	3. Legacy 2.0 (Marius Grateful)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fact that Grantaire manages to get Enjolras to acknowledge his presence again has to count as progress. But with the help of a very grateful Marius, it doesn't take long before things get a little out of hand...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Does anyone even read my notes?) Anyways, this chapter is actually going to have another part. It's already written, but since I won't be able to write anymore until the end of the month, I am dragging this one out so you don't have to wait so long in between updates. 
> 
> As always, enjoy your reading!

Long after the dinner is over and Cosette and Monsieur Valjean are gone, Marius remains stuck in the clouds, with a smile that to Grantaire can only be described as extraordinarily silly. Unlike Grantaire would’ve assumed Marius doesn’t share his contentment with his friends, choosing to conceal himself in a daydreaming state for the rest of the night instead. The only signs of his complete and utter delight are his smile, the glint in his eyes and how willing he is to offer Grantaire everything he wants.

 “Can I get a refill for my friend here, Monsieur Grantaire, please?” Marius asks to the bartender as he approaches Grantaire, who is at his natural habitat, which is to say, at the bar. He’s by himself, watching the throng of bodies dancing with his stuporous eyes, and his nearly empty glass of some cocktail he doesn’t exactly recall ordering, but which tastes strongly of tequila.

The bartender nods and Grantaire hands him his glass more than willingly, flashing a grin at the young – and handsome – man.

“R.” He says to Marius.

“What?”

“If we’re friends now, you should call me R. That’s what my friends call me. None of this Monsieur crap.” Marius looks at him with wide apologetic eyes. Once his glass is filled again, Grantaire directs his grin at the boy. “Oh, Marius, you’re too kind.”

“I could say the same for you.” Marius smiles.

Grantaire scoffs loudly at that before sipping some of his drink. “Did you pay for my dinner too?” Marius nods. “I’m going to pay you back someday… How did you like Cosette?”

To see the shift in Marius’s features at the mention of Cosette’s name would be heartwarming if Grantaire hadn’t already drank past his alcohol tolerance quota. The boy’s face lightened up, his lips broke into an honest, open mouthed smile, and his eyes glinted with delight.

“Oh, she’s wonderful; even more beautiful in person! I honestly don’t know how that can be. I feel like I’ve fallen and I can’t get up. And I have. I have fallen in love and I don’t want to get up again. Ever…” He trails off, offers Grantaire a painfully hopeful smile when Grantaire pats him on the back.

Honestly, he hasn’t a clue as to what possessed him to ask Marius such a question. To see the hopefulness in Marius’s very being only served to make his misery stronger. As if to say ‘sod off’ to his inner despair, Grantaire downs the liquid in his glass in one go. It burns his throat but he revels in the feeling, exhaling the fire it brings with a smile once it’s slipped down his throat.

Marius flinches away from him, but quickly tries to act as if he never did such a thing, as if he’s unimpressed by how comfortable Grantaire is with ingesting copious amounts of alcohol seamlessly.

The boy coughs, straightens his white shirt and continues:

“Cosette said she’s very happy that you decided to participate in the contest, after all. And she said she’ll be there in the stands cheering for you.” He pauses, dares to glance into Grantaire’s eyes for a fleeting second. Grantaire doesn’t think less of Marius for not looking into them longer, as he suspects by now they must look both parts dazed and terrifying. Swollen, red, and very, very blue. “With _me_.” He adds possessively.

Grantaire slams his yet again empty glass on the counter repeatedly, wordlessly demanding another refill.

“You needn’t be jealous, Marius. I have my eyes set on another.”

“Oh, you do? How’s that going for you?” Although the words sound sardonic, the way Marius tilts his head and focuses on the space between Grantaire’s eyebrows – surely the spot closes to his eyes he can look at -, suggests he is genuine in his curiosity. Grantaire watched his sideways, as he waits for the bartender to arrive.

“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into with that question.” He scoffs.

“Can’t be worse than my own passionate ramblings Cosette. God knows you’re suffered through enough of those.”

The fact that Marius is indeed able to recognize how insufferable he can be somehow changes the way Grantaire sees the boy. At once, he seems more mature. His quiet pensiveness threatens to be not mere naivety but also respectable solitude, his lightheadedness a gift to his group of friends and not just stupidity.  And since, when drunk, Grantaire needs little to no reason to delve into his ramblings, he concedes to answer the question after a particularly long gulp of his newly refilled drink.

“Well, my dear Marius, it’s going very bad for me. Cosette was quite smitten with you, I noticed. Alas, not all of us are as fortunate as you. Some of us are meant to suffer. This person - whom I shall not name – hates me as much as I love them. He’s dogmatically ideological and I am a cynic.” Grantaire pauses to look down at his drink with a pensive quality in his features. He sees a glimpse of his reflection in the liquid and lifts his gaze.

“He?” Marius questions, surprised.

Grantaire ignores him and picks up on his unfinished rambling with that inquietude that only drunk people can master. “Not to mention he is celibate – and a virgin. A virgin ideologist, can you believe it? If you ask me, no one should have such strong ideals about how the world should be if they have yet to experience the best thing this world has to offer. And with that beauty…” He takes a moment in which he realizes, somewhere, hidden in the fog that is his mind at the moment that his argument makes no sense whatsoever. But then it’s gone and he doesn’t care about such a thing as _sense_ any longer. “I heard he has not even ever dared touch himself! A young man of nineteen who was never felt what it’s like to have an orgasm!” He halts then, prompted by Marius’s slightly horrified expression.

“I’m sorry Marius. But as you can imagine, my mind thinks about him in this way more often that not. I can’t help it. I’m sure you understand me, as your own must do the same with Cosette.” Marius blushes furiously. “But you shouldn’t be hearing this. He’s your friend, after all. You must understand, though. My love is unrequited. All I have is my dreams. Alas, we don’t get to choose who we love. And the saying only goes one way, anyway.” Grantaire sighs and shrugs at the same time. His lips and his tongue feel dry, so he downs the rest of his drink.

“What saying?”

“ _Nobody loves the light like the blind man_.” He sings, swinging his arms in the air for dramatic effect. “Whereas the light couldn’t care less about who it’s illuminating. Blind or not blind, doesn’t change its brightness. Another!” He exclaims at the end, knocking the once again empty glass on the counter.

“How many have you had, R?” Marius asks nervously, his arms extended toward Grantaire as if in fear the drunk will loose the strength in his legs and fall down on the floor at any moment. Personally, Grantaire feels more inclined to throw up.

“Since I came here or since this morning?” He questions with a smirk, and Marius’s bulging eyes are a sight to behold. Grantaire sneers. “Who cares? I need to drink. I need to drink until I have forgotten about life. Here’s another saying for you, Marius: life’s a bitch and then you die.” His glass gets filled to the brim yet again, and yet again he downs it mercilessly. “Life is a hideous invention of something I don’t know. It doesn’t last, and it’s good for nothing. You break your neck simply living.”

“Grantaire, always the beacon of happiness. Stop it or you will turn Marius into a unicorn with a rainbow shooting out of his ass!” Courfeyrac chimes in.

Both Grantaire and Marius are startled by the other man’s sudden appearance, seemingly out of nowhere. Grantaire manages to stumble on his own feet despite having the bar to lean against, and his elbows propped on the counter. Once he manages to regain his balance, with Marius’s help, he simply looks down at his half empty glass and shrugs.

“Courfeyrac!” He exclaims afterwards, extending an arm to envelop around Courfeyrac’s shoulders. “It’s R, now.”

“R?”

“Yes, R. It’s what I tell my friends to call me.”

Courfeyrac says it under his breath, as if tasting the sound with his tongue and feeling it with his lips. “I prefer to call you Angel Lips, if you don’t mind. And if you do mind, all the better!”

For all his playfulness, Marius remains looking apprehensive at him, biting his lip and concerning Grantaire with dark eyes every few seconds.

“Courf, maybe we shouldn’t leave him by himself anymore. He’s really drunk and he might do something stupid that he won’t get to regret. I think he’s in love with Enjolras.” The way he says that last sentence is like the way one would talk about a friend who’s in love with a person who doesn’t exist. Grantaire registers that that’s exactly how dim his chances are with Enjolras.

“Which, by itself, is enough to make anyone want to hang themselves.” Courfeyrac smirks.

Marius makes a face at Courfeyrac that perfectly describes his unspoken words: _you’re not helping!_

Grantaire whacks Marius across the cheek playfully. The boy doesn’t seem to find the gesture half as amusing as Grantaire and Courfeyrac do, but he takes it, remaining just as apprehensive as before.

“Don’t worry, Marius. I always complain about life when I’ve had more than a little to drink, it’s just the natural order of things. I drink, I complain. But you needn’t worry. I don’t want life to end anytime soon. I doubt there’ll be any alcohol in the afterlife!” He then faces his two friends with a drunken smile, the kind that is so false in its exuberance that it’s painful to witness.

“I know what will cheer you up.” Courfeyrac says, taking hold of Grantaire’s hands. “Let’s go dance. Not you, _squire_. Go look for Enjolras and make sure he isn’t on his way to the Musain.”

Marius’s only objection is the middle finger he thrusts in Courfeyrac’s face before the latter starts leading Grantaire into the dance floor, through the through of unfamiliar people, all swaying and sweating and having fun. Grantaire has just spotted Jehan in the crowd when Courfeyrac leans in and whispers in his ear:

“How much of a cynic can you _really_ be if you say you only have your _dreams_?” The chuckle that follows Courfeyrac’s words is inaudible underneath the loud music, but Grantaire sees the imperious quality of it, how Courfeyrac looks at him as if he’s mastered the secret that is Grantaire’s being.

Uncomfortable, Grantaire looks away. His eyes find Jehan again, now much closer than before. His movements are fluid, his arms move freely about him, and he soon turns into a blur in Grantaire’s drunken vision. Even as a blur, Jehan’s movements have a certain peculiarity about them that set him apart from the rest, even from Courfeyrac, who has just tangled himself in the poet’s arms. Jehan lets his head fall on his boyfriend’s shoulder, reducing the distance between the two of the to that of the thickness of a hair strand.

Courfeyrac glances at Grantaire every once in a while, as if assuring him they haven’t forgotten about him. For the first few times, Grantaire looks back, but then their dance begins to feel too erotic for Grantaire’s sexually frustrated _…_ everything, so he stops looking back, deciding to let himself be taken by the beat of the music instead.

The murk in his head blends in with the anonymity of the people moving around him, and the obscurity of his surroundings. He dances without caring if there are eyes watching him, having passed the point of caring for such things probably three or four drinks ago. He loses himself for an unknown period of time. He feels nothing, loses the sense of being. He sees nothing, hears nothing, feels nothing, tastes nothing, smells nothing. It’s the blissful oblivion he so craved for.

Until there’s something yanking at him, or away from him, and when he opens his eyes, Eponine is staring at something behind him. Grantaire blinks his eyes several times, and when he turns around he sees a woman walking away from them with a scowl on her face.

“The nerve of that woman. Wouldn’t let you go!”

Grantaire looks up at Eponine. She’s wearing a black dress. Her hair is almost as wild Grantaire’s. Every aspect of her is dark, and between the flickering blinding light and almost complete darkness of the dance floor, he can only see the glint in her eyes clearly.

“’Ponine.”

“Yes?” She finally shifts her gaze from the woman to Grantaire.

“I’m going to throw up.”

She doesn’t yelp or flinch away from him. Rather, she takes a hold of him and leads him hurriedly off the dance floor and into the men’s bathroom. Grantaire almost manages to throw up into the toilet, but misses it for only a few inches.  At the narrow miss, Eponine emits a strangled sound.

Grantaire wipes his mouth with some toilet paper, stands up and heads for the sink. He turns the faucet on and gulps on as much water as he can.

“So, you told Marius?” Eponine asks. Her voice echoes through the empty bathroom.

“I’m so drunk, ‘Ponine.” This time Grantaire simply wipes the water off his lips with the back of his hand. “I care very little about anything.”

Eponine sneers. “Are you all right?”

Grantaire frowns. He honestly doesn’t understand her.

“Yes. No. Why do you care?” He sounds unintentionally rude, which makes Eponine narrow her eyes at him. Another man walks in through the door, his eyes snapping straight at Eponine. Instead of being put out by her presence in the bathroom, he shoots her a nasty smirk.

“Fuck off, man.” Grantaire opens the door and Eponine walks out, but not before flipping him the middle finger. Once outside, he yells in her ear, in order to be heard over the loud music:

“After what I did to you tonight, don’t you want to punch me?”

“I do. And I would if I didn’t know you’d faint.” Grantaire laughs a both hollow and amused laugh. “I don’t think I need to anyway. Looks like karma punch you for me.”

“What a bitch.” He begins to laugh but stops abruptly when he spots Enjolras. He’s standing next to Marius and Combeferre at the bar where sometime ago he’d been pouring his drunken heart out to Marius. Apollo is entertaining a drink in his hand again, despite having preached about how drinking at the party had been a mistake. Apparently Enjolras is a mistake-repeater, Grantaire thinks to himself. He gulps down on his already dry throat. Even at this distance Enjolras stands out from everyone else around him, as if somewhere, someone is directing a strobe light at him. He’s searching the crowd, Grantaire notes, but his eyes stop once he sees Grantaire, and his glare seers through the drunk, makes him weak at the knees. It’s both exhilarating and gut wrenching to have those blue eyes on him and yet feel them not appreciating him but blaming him for everything that is wrong with the world.

“I’m the walking tragedy of unrequited love. He hates me more than anything and I…” The unspoken _love him more than anything_ hangs excruciatingly clear in the murky air. He nods at Enjolras and Eponine follows his direction. “See how he looks at me.” He tells her.

“It’s not hate I see in his eyes.” She says once she’s facing Grantaire again.

“You barely looked!”

Instead of looking at Enjolras again, Eponine shakes her head. He cannot see, but he can almost feel her rolling his eyes at him, which he feels is highly unfair since he’s right and she’s wrong. He plans to tell her this much, but then she’s leaning towards him, and she’s not stopping, not even when he can feel her breathing heavily in his face. Once Grantaire realized what she is about to do, his eyes find Combeferre’s in the opposite side of the bar. He lets his gaze droop and turns away, leading Enjolras to do the same.

Grantaire pushes Eponine away before her lips touch his.

“’Ponine, what’re you thinking?”

She looks back at where Enjolras and Combeferre’s backs now face them, and smiles. “Proving you that hate isn’t what Enjolras feels toward you. Everyone else has seen it but you and the damn fool himself.” She sighs, and then smiles again. “He turned his back though, see. He couldn’t—“

“No, he didn’t. Combeferre did.”

She frowns at him. “Combeferre?”

“Do you ever notice he’s always there for you? A shoulder for you to sleep on, a victim for you to teach how to dance, a friend to help you deal with Marius breaking your heart.  I’m drunk more than half of the time and I’ve noticed!”

“Combeferre?” She repeats, still puzzled.

“He’s the ‘Ponine to your Marius.” Grantaire chuckles, which might be indelicate but he doesn’t really care.

Eponine’s face falls eventually. “Why would someone like him ever like someone like me?”

“I finally feel like you understand me.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll update the last part of this chapter next wednesday (and I promise it contains a proper ER scene - that reminds me I have to change the rating to this! D:)
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are the treasure to my pirate!
> 
> And if you want to talk to me, just to talk or give me prompts for one-shots that I can write when I want to procrastinate, you can find me on[tumblr](http://poemsfromprouvaire.tumblr.com/)
> 
> <33


	4. Legacy 3.0 (Dejá Vu)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The fact that Grantaire manages to get Enjolras to acknowledge his presence again has to count as progress. But, with the help of a very grateful Marius, it doesn't take long before things get a little out of hand...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here it is, the last part of this chapter. Unfortunately, I won't have time to write until June, probably. I'm very sorry but College is unforgiving.
> 
> Meanwhile, have this. Guys, _be easy_ , this is basically the first time I have ever written something this smutty and I tried my best!
> 
> See you in a few weeks.

Long after Eponine’s stumble into enlightenment, the Friends of the ABC, accompanied by Grantaire, meander back to Jehan’s van. It’s dawn, the sun is threatening to show itself any moment now, and the streets are deserted. They lean against each other as they zigzag through the streets, seeking steadiness in the other’s body but finding it as unstable as their own. The way is a short one, yet it takes them several minutes to arrive due to their level of inebriation. They trip on their own feet more often than not, and stop every time one of them has the feeling they are going to vomit. Six times out of ten, they do.

Grantaire, having done that much earlier in the evening, and having opted to halt his drinking from then on, ends up being one of the most sober elements of the group. Combeferre is the most sober, it seems, followed by the almighty Apollo whom Grantaire had seen with his own eyes drink more than a couple of times, and then was Grantaire. In truth, that doesn’t mean all that much, seeing as all the others are so plastered that being a little less drunk than them still means you’re a long way away from sober.

Regardless of their state, they manage to get to the van, and it’s Combeferre who takes the wheel, while Enjolras, with some of Grantaire’s assistance, helps all the others into the vehicle. They fall down on a pile on top of each other, but they don’t care about their uncomfortable positions or the weight crushing them. In fact, it makes them giggle uncontrollably.

Joly offers breath mints to everyone, drunkenness turning him more stubborn. Grantaire is _obliged_ to take it.

“Where were you, _Jollly_?” Marius sings from somewhere in the middle of the heap. “I know for a fact Courf, Jehan, R and ‘Ponine were sucking face all night, and I was drinking with _Enjy_ and _Comby_ , but you were invisible al’ nigh’!”

“I was in an orgy? I’ve always wanted to be in an orgy. This road trip rules, man.” Courfeyrac says rather dazedly, sounding as if he’s about to fall asleep, which he probably is.

“What? No, Ew. I mean you and Jehan, R and ‘Ponine.”

“R and ‘Ponine nothing, we weren’t _sucking face_.” Grantaire glances at Enjolras, seated on the opposite side of the van, steadying the heap of bodies with his hand.

“As I understand, ‘sucking face’ is a synonym for kissing. Isn’t that right?” Enjolras keeps looking down at the now sleeping Courfeyrac, who is, of course, lying on top of everyone else.

“What exactly is your point?” Grantaire leans over, trying to get Enjolras to face him.

Enjolras opens his mouth to answer, Grantaire notices because he cannot help his eyes from wandering downwards from blue eyes to delicate and glistening lips. Even though there’s barely any light, and he cannot see the color of his eyes or how pink his lips are, Grantaire sees all of the shapes and that is still enough to have him reeling.

“Just that if that’s what it means then you _were_ ‘sucking face’ with her. I saw you.” Enjolras lifts his gaze then, just for a moment, and his eyes flash with a fervor Grantaire cannot name nor understand. It robs him of proper thought, and consequently, of a retort.

Eponine is the one who interjects.

“I wanted to kiss him, but he didn’t let me,” With a displeased frown, Enjolras turns his attention the same way as Grantaire: to Combeferre. They see nothing but the steady back of his head, left to imagine what his face must look like now that Eponine has uttered the words. Grantaire attempts to tell her to _cut it out_ with his face, but she is too drunk to be able to read the shake of his head. “I was just trying to make you jealous so Grantaire would see you want him.”

There’s very little Grantaire can see in the almost darkness of the van, but he doesn’t miss the bob of Enjolras’s throat as he gulps down and turns away from both Eponine and Grantaire. Had there been more light inside the van, Grantaire might have been graced with the sight of an intense blush in Apollo’s cheeks. But what the eye couldn’t see, the ear could hear. The complete silence that falls upon every single one of them after Eponine’s words are uttered is deafening. Even the inebriated are aware of what has been said, and feel unable to speak or move or breathe in the presence of Enjolras. Had he not been there, they would’ve jumped at the opportunity to comment. But with their leader there, they recoil. No one, sober or otherwise, wishes to be the subject of Enjolras’s wrath.

Enjolras doesn’t break into an elaborate and heated argument countering Eponine’s assumption, doesn’t tell her that she’s so spectacularly wrong like Grantaire knows she is. Instead there is only silence and stillness, the inertia so heavy in the air that Grantaire isn’t sure he should breathe it in.

Just before Joly breaks the silence, his drunk slur like an axe breaking ice, Grantaire realizes he cannot go on any longer not knowing what is going through Enjolras’s mind, what is making him act so out of character. He’s ready for the inevitable result that will be the sour sound of words he would rather never have to hear.

“Well, if anyone is still interested, I was with a lovely group of friends who are lodging in Montreuil: Bahorel, Feuilly and Bossuet. I particularly liked that last one.”

Grantaire really wishes his drunk ears heard wrong.

“What are they doing in Montreuil?” Grantaire asks through clenched teeth.

“Why, for your contest, of course. Don’t look so constipated, Grantaire. I will still cheer for you!”

Having to go against Bossuet, Bahorel and Feuilly in the contest is something Grantaire would have never seen coming. Little did he know that the competition was so "famous" that even all the way in Montfermeil they would hear about it. Granted, he hadn't been that far away from Montfermeil himself when he first heard about it, but he'd found the flier in the hands of Cosette, the daughter of the man behind the whole event.

Grantaire thinks about this as they make their way back to the abandoned house, trying to figure out if he should look forward to seeing his old band mates again or if he should dread it. On the one hand, they had parted in not so much amicable terms, Bahorel having hit him with his fist and caused severe damage to Grantaire nose. Yet, on the other hand, having let the matter rest, Grantaire can now look at it from a broader point of view, and although it's hard to admit, he had been the one in the wrong. He'd been insufferable that day, refusing to apologize for what he'd done. At the time he'd been thoroughly convinced none of it had been his fault. Now, he knows it _had_ been nobody's fault but his.

They must have arrived at the house, because Grantaire's legs are moving. He gives little direction to them and just lets them go where they see fit as he continues to reflect upon the inevitable reunion that will happen in less than a week.

_Less than a week_ , he thinks, and a shiver goes through him. _Bagel & Bouquet_, despite the ridiculous name, have talent and plenty of good songs that Grantaire helped bring to life. He knows they are good, and it makes his heart beat a little faster, that knowledge. He's nervous. If he wants to win, he needs to be better on his own.

He's making a mental note to approach Jehan in the morning and ask about the lyrics when a harsh sound ruptures his train of thought and yanks him back to reality. He finds he is lying on his side, facing the window, on a bed that isn't his, somewhere that isn't home. It's not his bed because it smells too clean, it's entirely too soft and comfortable. The last one he had was just a mattress on the floor with sheets he seldom remembered to clean.

It's not his home because he hasn't had one in years.

The sound, which Grantaire registers as being of a door closing rather violently, comes from behind him. He would've turned towards its source immediately, if he weren't still somewhat drunk and his limbs weren't still working in slow motion. But he is, and he hears Enjolras's shrieking voice before he sees him.

"Marius! Open the door!" The blond deity is calling frantically. "Combeferre!" There's a hint of desperation in that last word. As if being locked inside a room with Grantaire is the last thing he ever wishes would happen to him. Which is probably true, Grantaire reflects.

"I'm having a strange sense of Déjà Vu." Grantaire comments nonchalantly, propped in the bed with one elbow. "I wonder why."

Enjolras ceases his protestations and turns to Grantaire, affording him a clear view of his eye roll. Grantaire lets out a few giggles as he falls back on the bed. Staring at the clear white ceiling, he asks:

"Did Marius trick you into locking you here with me?" Enjolras grunts in affirmation, standing awkwardly by the door with his hands gripping his arms and looking anywhere but at Grantaire. "You must be really drunk, if you let Pontmercy best you."

"He didn't _best_ me!" Enjolras protests through clenched teeth.

"Sure, whatever you say."

He hears Enjolras shuffling back and forth, his steps heavy but out of rhythm, unsure. His clear nervousness propels Grantaire's heart to accelerate makes it so damn hard to focus. He tries as best he can, though. Now that Marius has provided the occasion, he cannot let the boy's effort go to waste. There is one thing he wants Enjolras to tell him.

"My guess is that Marius wants you to offer me the luxury of an explanation as to why you've suddenly grown a deep hatred for me. I thought we were getting along reasonably well, until I kissed you." Grantaire's breath hitches in his throat after those last words come out. He has not the courage to look at Enjolras, even though he so desperately wants to see his reaction. Grantaire keeps looking at the ceiling. "I never realized my kisses were that horrible--" Enjolras scoffs. "-- in fact, I have it on good authority that they are quite good. But if that is why you hate me so much, I apologize, Apollo. You gave me painkillers, and I had just been beaten half to death, and before that I had been drinking that awful punch. Cut me some slack."

"You mean it was a mistake kissing me?"

Grantaire's heartbeat grows incredibly loud in his ears. That was the last question he expected Enjolras to pose. His throat is dry and his mind is blank.

"Clearly, it was." He says. To his benefit, he regrets his words as soon as they leave his mouth. _If it's made you hate me_ , he means to add, but that remains unspoken. It sounds too much like a commitment. Like if he said it, he would be telling Enjolras how he feels, and the pain of stripping himself naked like that in front of Enjolras, to be so vulnerable to his rejection, is one he cannot bear to imagine.

"Well, that's good to know." Enjolras's voice doesn't sound the least bit pleased, however.

"So that _is_ why you hate me."

"I don't hate you."

Grantaire cannot control his sneer. Enjolras speaks as if Grantaire thinking he hates him is a preposterous thing. It renders Grantaire frustrated, this tone in his voice, and that allows him to finally divert his attention from the ceiling and face Enjolras. The blond man is still standing by the door, although now his hands hang at his sides, his arms outstretched rigidly.

"Yes, you do. You look at me as if I am Louis XVIII reborn!" Grantaire laughs without humor.

Enjolras takes a tentative step towards Grantaire, but quickly backtracks.

"I don't hate you, I never have. I am furious with myself."

"With yourself?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I..." Enjolras trails off after opening and closing his mouth twice. "Because of this, my new incapability of speaking coherently, of knowing where I stand, and how I feel. I'm an assertive man, I've always known myself, and my capabilities and my limits. Or at least I thought I knew them. But I'm not sure anymore. Lately I feel out of control, like my thoughts have their own will, and that will just does not want to cooperate with me. I want to focus on planning the next move of the Friends of the ABC when we get back, but instead I think about... other... things..." He glances at Grantaire and quickly drops his gaze once he sees Grantaire's eyes are on him. There's a light flush in his cheeks, which Grantaire cannot tell if it's born from his frustrated speech or from embarrassment. "I can't even think about whether we should hold our first meeting at the Corinth or the Musain without those thoughts assaulting me. Yes, I'm angry! I'm their leader, how am I supposed to _lead_ them if I can't even think clearly?"

He's wandered further into the room, closer to Grantaire, although he doesn't seem to be aware of the movement of his feet. Grantaire is highly intrigued by his speech, so much so that he sits up straight on the bed and regards Enjolras with curious and intent eyes. The blond man stares back at him, his lips twitching occasionally, his fingers moving uncontrollably in frustration.

"Dare I even ask what thoughts are these?"

"I can't tell you." Enjolras replies. "But there is something I wanted to tell you. I guess, since we're here..." Grantaire raises his eyebrows expectantly. "I know about your father."

Grantaire's eyebrows knit into a frown. "Of course you do, I told you."

"No, that's not what I mean." This time, Enjolras is conscious of the step he takes to reduce the distance between him and Grantaire. "I mean I know he was an alcoholic."

Grantaire's body tenses. For a second, he cannot move, and then he all but jumps out of the bed to stand right in front of Enjolras, just an arm's length away.

"You can't even decide if you should meet at the Corinth or at the Musain, yet you can think long enough about my daddy issues to reach a conclusion like that?" Grantaire spits, disbelievingly.

"You don't have to be like him, Grantaire." Enjolras says instead.

It feels like a slap to his face. A slap that hurts more than all the beating he took from those bullies at the party, and worse than Bahorel's punch to his nose. Worse.

"I'm _nothing_ like him! Or do you think I'll take one of your friends with me when I get sick of you and try to sell them?"

"I didn't mean to say that. You're right. You're much better than your father ever was, but you're letting yourself get pushed into his vices. It's not your fault. Whether he was a despicable human being or not, he was still your father--"

"You don't know what you're talking about, Enjolras! You're right, those _things_ are clouding your judgment." Grantaire bellows. His limbs don't seem to be working in slow motion anymore, because he turns away from Enjolras briskly. Anger must have accelerated them. He's reeling from Enjolras's words, stuck between anger and hurt and embarrassment at having someone know a something about him that no one else but him ever knew before.

Despite his speed, Grantaire does not go far before Enjolras, with a hand on Grantaire's elbow, says, "Not about this," and pushes Grantaire back to him. He clashes his lips against Grantaire's without so much as a glance beforehand. Unlike the last time, when Grantaire had kissed him at the hotel, he isn't gentle or patient. No, Enjolras is savage and craving. He's letting go of his frustration on Grantaire, and Grantaire is stripped of all of his anger as soon as the first hint of Enjolras's lips touch his. He is consumed with lust and a desire such as he has never known before. A part of him feels Enjolras's own need, and it fuels his own to a point that he feels he might erupt in an explosion of wildfire at any moment. He must breathe, yet Enjolras does not let go of him, instead pushing him closer, connecting every inch of their bodies against each other. Enjolras feels firm against him, but at the same time quivering. As if one touch from Grantaire in the right place could see Courfeyrac's prediction come true: the almighty Apollo falling to his knees. It all elevates Grantaire into a state of bliss he has never experienced before. He feels lightheaded by the audible moans of pleasure that escape Enjolras's lips when he sucks down on the man's lower lip, but earthbound by the firm hand that has crawled under his shirt and now grips him tightly against the body and the man he never imagined would want him so close.

"Enjolras..." He dispenses of a breath of air in order to whisper the name into the man's ear. His hardness is pressed against Enjolras's own. He feels it burning even through the fabrics of their clothing, Courfeyrac's trousers be damned. The strength in his knees almost escapes him, but Enjolras is still gripping him so tightly that he manages to remain standing while the other man attacks his neck, kissing and sucking and licking his way upward and downwards. Grantaire lets him, oh, he let's him. He would let Enjolras do whatever he wanted to do with him without raising any objections.

There's still a big part of him that believes this to be a dream, but that part of his cares little to nothing, as long as he can still thrust his hips forward and feel Enjolras's arousal for _him,_ and _because_ of him.

Enjolras breaks his lips away from Grantaire's neck, pulls back to stare at the crumbling man in front of him. His eyes are black pools, pupils dilated to their limits, while his swollen lips are curled upwards at the corners. He licks his lips, raises one hand to sink into Grantaire's wild curls all the way to the back of his head, fingers gracing the hairline of his neck.

"I don't know what's possessed me," He says, and his voice is rougher and deeper than Grantaire has ever heard it before. It causes his brain to short circuit, leaving him functioning on pure instinct. His own hand descends from Enjolras’s torso, slides down, feeling every curve of his body, until it settles on Enjolras's hardness. At first it just lingers there teasingly while Grantaire stares at Enjolras. In Apollo's eyes he sees a flash of something wicked that to him looks challenging, so he takes it upon himself to not rest until he's made Enjolras whimper his name. But the challenge goes both ways, and so when he tightens his hand around Enjolras, the man responds with a strangled moan before gripping Grantaire by his shirt and pushing him against the wall. There must have been a frame on the wall because Grantaire hears something fall loudly on the ground and glass break as he is again attacked by Enjolras's lips, this time along with his hands that have now grown bolder, lifting Grantaire's shirt so frenetically that they struggle to get it halfway up his chest. The piece of clothing is finally off when Grantaire sees the door open and Marius waltz in. The boy yelps and hides behind the wooden door almost immediately after he understands what his eyes are seeing.

Enjolras snaps his head at the door, but Marius is so fast in fleeing that he never gets to see the boy.

“That was Marius,” Grantaire offers, biting his lip. He refuses to _think_ about the situation Enjolras has thrown them in, hoping that as long as he doesn’t, it will not end. For a moment, Grantaire feels Enjolras’s muscles strain where he has his hands on the man’s back. He’s certain Enjolras is going to snap out of whatever delusion he is under and flinch away from Grantaire, but then something unexpected happens. Enjolras turns back to Grantaire, looks into his eyes with a wicked smile, and his muscles relax again.

“That thing you did… with your hand…” He breathes out, his gaze drooping to said hand.

Grantaire’s eyebrows rise high in his forehead, but then he’s matching Enjolras’s grin and sliding his hand back to envelop around him, sliding it up and down at a pace that is deliberately slow. It makes him feel tremendous pleasure to just be allowed to please Enjolras. Yet when he hears Enjolras fail in his attempt to stifle a moan due to Grantaire’s hand, he feels so overwhelmed that his knees start to buckle. Enjolras’s legs are entwined with his, one hand holding onto the wall next to Grantaire’s head for support. The muscles in his naked arm are protruding, making intricate designs that Grantaire so desperately wants to trace with his tongue.

“This?” Grantaire says.

“Yes.” Enjolras’s voice manages to break halfway through the short word. “No. I have to talk to Marius…”

Grantaire brushes his lips faintly against Enjolras’s. “Marius is too drunk to remember any of this when he wakes up,” he strokes Enjolras just a little harder, causing the other man to chase his lips in order to unite them in a heated sloppy kiss.

“I can’t let him tell Courfeyrac. I’ll never hear the end of it.” Enjolras puts his hand on top of Grantaire’s to halt his movement. The two steps he then takes, to put a distance between him and Grantaire, seem to requite all of his concentration and willpower.

“ _We_ _’_ _ll_ never hear the end of it.” Grantaire smiles.

“I don’t yet understand these feelings that you incite in me. I’ve never felt them before. But I need to figure them out before I let Courfeyrac and the rest of them do it for me.”

“I make you _feel_ …? Am I… Am I the _thing_ … you were saying… I can’t be… you…” Grantaire cannot seem to piece his thoughts together or make his eyes focus. He cannot let himself believe what his betraying mind is trying to tell him.

“It depends,” Enjolras is thoughtful as he speaks. He meets Grantaire’s unfocused eyes half hiding behind his lashes. “Sometimes it’s your lips, or your eyes, or your hair. Other times it’s the things you say to me and what they make me feel. It depends.”

“Is this a joke? Is this a really bad joke?” It’s the only thing Grantaire can say.

In lieu of answer, Enjolras steps closer again. He holds Grantaire’s face with his hands that tremble just slightly, demanding Grantaire’s eyes to find him and focus on him. Once he has what he wants, he kisses Grantaire. The warmth of his lips spreads inside Grantaire, his movements strong enough to return strength to Grantaire’s legs. For as long as their lips work against each other, Grantaire feels more secure and happier than he’s ever felt in his life.

“Can we meet tomorrow?” Enjolras asks as soon as he’s pulled away.

Grantaire can do nothing but nod.

“I’ll come find you.”

And then he’s gone.


	5. Courfeyrac's Foreshadowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras and Courfeyrac talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear, wonderful readers,
> 
> Some of you already know this, but I must say it again now. This is the final chapter of this fic. There won't be any more. The Road to Montreuil is coming to an end.
> 
> I had initially planned more chapters, but the way I function doesn't allow me to _really_ ship two pairings at the same time. What I mean is, I will always ship E/R, but as Teen Wolf is coming back, and I am a hard Sterek shipper, what is going to happen is that I'm going to become more and more invested in Sterek and less and less invested in E/R, which means I will lose the will to write this fic. As such, and because unfinished fics are the bane of my existence, I have decided to end this while I still want to write it.
> 
> I hope you all understand, and I hope this end is still to your liking.
> 
> It's been wonderful writing this fic and reading all of your comments and feeling your support. I LOVE YOU.
> 
> If you'd like to keep in touch with me, you can always find me on tumblr @ [poemsfromprouvaire](http://poemsfromprouvaire.tumblr.com), and remember that you can always come talk to me because I love you like a lot okay.
> 
> So, goodbye? Maybe I'll see you in the summer if you are a sterek shipper like me.
> 
> Much love,  
> Afterword

Yet again it is silence that rouses Grantaire from his sleep. Complete and utter silence. Even nature outside seems to have been muted. The lack of sound feels alien, and so Grantaire moves harshly about the place on the floor where he fell asleep, causing as much sound as he can while he struggles to stand up. His limbs are numb and lazy.

Once standing, he looks out of the large bedroom window and finds the sun is setting, already half hidden beyond the horizon. There’s a beauty in that view that Grantaire would have never appreciated before, being in this state of numbness and tiredness that proceeds his drunk nights. But, in that moment, he contemplates it with a newfound wonder. The colors that the sunset splays across the trees, the natural work of art that is the sky before it gives in to the darkness of the night. He recognizes the beauty, he feels it, and, slowly at first, and then all at once, he is taken by a desire to pain again, if only to capture it for posterity.

Grantaire smiles. The thought of such beauty reminds him of his Apollo, the golden God of his fantasies that noticed him last night. Grantaire, the lowest of human beings, faithless and hopeless and in love.

It is debatable whether he is in complete control of his wits or not. Either way, it should have struck him as odd the utter silence that still surrounded him, in a house that should be occupied by seven other young people.

It did not.

He makes his way downstairs with an unconscious, thinking of Enjolras. His feet move of their own accord because his mind is lost recalling the moment that had burst his heart and lifted him up to paradise. Never before did the thought of living in someone else’s mind thrill him so much. It makes no sense. Absolutely no sense at all.

 In that moment, he cares little whether Enjolras decides he wants to repeat the events of last night or not. In absolute honesty, for a man who never even entertained the thought of Enjolras sharing the flimsiest of feelings with Grantaire, the simple reminder of lips on his neck is enough to turn his soul a handful of shades lighter.

If he is to never touch Enjolras again, then he will at least have his memories. He will never forget the feeling of Apollo in his hands, his neck, and his lips. Last night, every inch of him was Enjolras’s, just like every inch of Enjolras was his.

Such thoughts keep him enveloped in a mist of blissful wonder as he wanders about the house, unconsciously searching for his new friends. He doesn’t notice the echo of his footsteps or care about the silence until, for an unknown reason, it hits him all at once. Grantaire stops in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, his feet frozen. His insides twist agonizingly as he realizes he’s completely alone.

Grantaire, in that moment, is the blind man who has seen the light and then is thrust again into darkness. Faster than the blink of an eye he is yearning for the burn of alcohol to slide down his throat. He rushes to the kitchen and bursts through every cupboard. Last time he stayed in this house he left a bottle of vodka inside one of the cupboards, he’s sure of it.

It’s as he is in this state of frenzy that a voice calls for him, like a ghost of Grantaire’s fantasy.

“Grantaire,” It’s torn between being a declaration and a question. But the voice is Enjolras’s. There’s no mistaking the calm assertiveness, the power of its tune. With a single word he manages to fill the whole house with his essence. “What are you doing?”

Enjolras’s question echoes in the silence that follows. Grantaire is like a child caught playing with matches. He freezes where he is, kneeled on the floor, one hand holding an empty cupboard open. His eyes focus on the darkness inside it while in his mind a voice convinces him that Enjolras’s voice is a trick of his imagination, that all he has to do is turn around to realize it’s all in his head.

But then it isn’t just a voice. Grantaire listens to footsteps, growing closer and closer to him. When they stop, a moment passes, and then Enjolras speaks again.

“Are you looking for something?”

Grantaire turns around and finds Enjolras leaning against the opposite counter with his arms crossed over his chest. Yet the fact that he’s really there and not just a voice in his head doesn’t put Grantaire at ease. Instead, he feels a painful tug in his heart that spreads through his whole body. It lasts no more than a second, yet Grantaire almost loses the strength in his muscles.

Enjolras, as he stands there, is not entirely the same man he has been since Grantaire met him. The difference is felt rather than seen. His golden beauty has not changed, and yet it has become bolder. Perhaps it’s the way he stands that provokes this feeling of change. His muscles appear to have hardened, his eyes grown heavier. He’s wearing freshly cleaned and expensive-looking clothing. His jacket alone, a red piece with golden embroidery on his shoulders and along the chest, embracing its buttons, looks like the most expensive piece of clothing Grantaire has ever seen in his life.

“Yes, I was looking for you and your friends. Did I sleep through the rest of your vacation? It wouldn’t surprise me.” Grantaire says after he’s managed to gather his thoughts and feelings in place.

“No. But you did sleep through the whole day,” Grantaire stands up and shrugs. “They all left a while ago.”

Grantaire grips the kitchen counter until his knuckles turn white. If a while ago he thought he was ready for a life without Enjolras, then now he realizes how absurd that is. He’s grown attached to not only Enjolras, but also his friends. The sense of belonging that spread in his chest when he was with all of them bears a dangerous resemblance to the one he might have spend his life searching for after his sister’s demise.

“They’re not coming back, are they?” He asks, and Enjolras does not hesitate before he shakes his head. “Are we going to have _the talk_ now?”

Enjolras bites his lip and turns around, so that Grantaire can only see his profile. He begins to meander around the kitchen, as if he simply wants to give his feet something to do while he thinks.

“You’re leaving because you regret what we did last night, aren’t you?” Grantaire asks, still clinging to the counter with the same intensity.

“I don’t regret anything. I still feel the same way I did yesterday. But after I spoke to Marius, I took advantage of the fact that they were all inebriated and I went home, just to check on things.”

“ _Oh,”_ Grantaire mutters under his breath. “How did Courfeyrac let you live after that?”

“I slept in my bed and in the morning I visited the Café Musain, which is the establishment where we, and a few others, gather once or twice every week to discuss the state of our country and then plan how we should act towards it. Some of those other elements of our student group were there and they informed me of what’s happened since we left. There’s another student group that usually gathers on the opposite side of Paris. Its leader has a certain dislike of me. In my absence, he planned a demonstration that the Friends of the ABC have been planning for quite some time, hoping that we would miss it.”

“What a dick,” Grantaire sneers. Enjolras nods. One corner of his mouth curves ever so slightly upwards. “So that’s why you look like you came out of a fashion runway.”

“The demonstration is happening on Saturday,” Enjolras says, ignoring his comment. Grantaire registers that that will be on the same day his contest is scheduled to take place.

By this point, Enjolras has wandered into the living room, forcing Grantaire to part with the kitchen counter to follow him.

“So what, this is goodbye? Am I supposed to, I don’t know, shake your hand and watch you leave?” He ignores the break in his voice, hoping that by doing so he can pretend it never happened.

“Goodbye?” Enjolras frowns. “No, Grantaire. Why would I ever want to leave you behind? You came into my life and you changed it. I was furious about it in the beginning, but that’s over now. I don’t regret kissing you last night, and I don’t wish it to be a one-time event. If you don’t want to be with me, I will leave and you won’t ever hear from me again. But if you’d like to… be with me, it would make me very happy.”

Grantaire can do nothing but stare into the depth of Enjolras’s eyes. He thinks he might be dreaming, but he doesn’t pitch himself because he doesn’t ever want to wake up.

“You made me look at the world in a different way, one that I think has made me wiser and perhaps even a better man. All that I wish is that you let me do the same with you. Let me show you the world the way I see it.” Enjolras continues.

“Enjolras…” Grantaire whispers.

Enjolras takes a few steps closer, until he is but an arm’s length away from Grantaire.

 “No, it’s okay. It’s fine. I know you have your views and I don’t want to brainwash you into mine. I just want you to let me try to show you the beauty and the potential that I see when I look out the window – when I look at _you.”_ Enjolras extends a hand, as if he’s going to use it to caress Grantaire’s cheek. But then he lets it fall when Grantaire takes a step back.

“I’m not broken, Enjolras. You don’t have to fix me.” He says.

Enjolras sighs, exasperated. “There’s _nothing_ to fix. You aren’t broken. You might just be the greatest man I have ever met! You’re in the gutter and yet you want everyone else to be in the stars. You don’t infect others with your misery. I’m fairly certain you would willingly hand over your happiness to someone else. That is as sad as it is beautiful. I admire you, Grantaire.”

With every word that Enjolras speaks, Grantaire’s hands go from twitching to trembling to shaking. He flexes them into fists while Enjolras’s eyes consume him with their honesty and their fire. Grantaire listens intently, but he doesn’t understand. How can Enjolras be speaking the truth when he says he _admires_ Grantaire? There’s nothing to admire.

“That… makes no sense,” he says.

“You’re just lost, Grantaire. And, as it turns out, so was I. Even lost, you helped me find myself. So let me help _you_ now, and maybe you’ll keep helping me too.” Enjolras smiles, and the tenderness in his features feels, to Grantaire, like an anchor.

Grantaire drops his gaze to Enjolras’s shiny black shoes. He coughs, clears his throat to better his chances of producing an audible sound, and then says, “Yes,” and his lips break into a smile he cannot fight.

“Yes?”

Grantaire holds one of Enjolras’s hands in his own shaking one, caressing Enjolras’s soft palm with his thumb. “Of course it’s yes. I would do anything you asked me to do. I would shine your boots if that were your wish. I believe in you, I want you and I…” Words escape him when Enjolras entwines their fingers together. He looks down at their hands, his a darker shade, rougher and smaller but still so at home in Enjolras’s. “…I really like you.”

Enjolras chuckles. “You love me,” he declares, no trace of doubt in his tone.

Grantaire feels dizzy and so he lets his head fall onto Enjolras’s shoulder.

“Yes,” he repeats, wondering if he’s ever going to get used to not only being allowed but also _welcomed_ to touch Enjolras whenever he so desires.

Enjolras pushes him away from his shoulder, only to cup Grantaire’s face with his hand and lean forward to join their lips together.

“I was going to ask you to come with me to the demonstration – I really wanted you there with me -, but then I remembered you have a contest to win,” Enjolras says once he pulls back from the kiss, and Grantaire feels Enjolras thrust something into his hand. “Jehan asked me to give you that. It’s your lyrics.”

Grantaire slips them into his pocket.

“You won’t be there?” He asks.

“I can’t be. None of us can, we have a demonstration to go to. But Marius and Cosette will be there.” Grantaire’s heart falls but he still smiles. As he speaks, Enjolras starts unbuttoning his jacket. “Come find me after you’ve won. I’ll be at the Café Musain, and if I’m not there, then one of them will be and they’ll come get me.”

“What if I don’t win?” Grantaire asks as he watches Enjolras throw his jacket to the couch first, and then take his shoes off, one at a time.

“Then you’ll try again another time, if you want to.”

Grantaire nods.

Shoes off, Enjolras holds Grantaire’s hand and leads him around the couch. There, he stops, and Grantaire sees the carefully positioned bed of blankets at Enjolras’s feet, complete with pillows. He’s dumbfounded, and so he finds he can move very little.

“I thought we could continue where left off yesterday,” Enjolras says, and he _smirks_.

 _Yes, please_ , Grantaire thinks. “Are you sure you want to? That outfit looks like it took you a long time to put on,” he says instead.

“I’m sure you will be quick enough taking it off,” replies Enjolras, and with that, Grantaire knows he’s lost his wits. He’s still not over the words when Enjolras suddenly falls to his knees in front of him. The sight is enough to send him over the edge. Enjolras barely touched him, only scraping the tips of his fingers along Grantaire’s arms as he fell, and yet Grantaire fears he might just come right there and then.

Somehow, as Enjolras unbuckles his trousers, he still manages to recall something Courfeyrac said to him not long ago: “ _you could even have the Marble Lover of Liberty fall on his knees in front of you, if you tried hard enough.”_

He’s still recalling Courfeyrac’s words when Enjolras, as if reading his mind and wanting to confirm Courfeyrac’s prediction, brings him back to the present with just six words:

“I think I love you too.”

 

*          *          *

 

Later, after Enjolras leaves, Grantaire remembers the folded piece of paper in his pocket, most likely torn from Jehan’s notebook. He takes it out and unfolds it. Reading it, he wonders if Jehan can read him like an open book every time he looks at Grantaire, or if he’s simply wise enough that he just _knows._

They feel so intimate to Grantaire that on the day of the contest, he doesn’t sing them. He keeps them inside his pocket as he plays he guitar solo. In the end he doesn’t win, but it doesn’t matter. Cosette and Marius are there, cheering for him, and he’s crossed every mark he set out for himself. And, anyway, losing to his former band isn’t half as bad.

Grantaire makes his peace with Bahorel, Feuilly and Bossuet before he leaves to meet Enjolras. When he arrives at the Café Musain, he finds Combeferre and Eponine there, holding hands and sharing a pretzel.

Enjolras is there in a matter of minutes, and they never quite leave each other’s side after that.

Some months after that, when his former band decide to visit, somehow they all merge into one big group of friends. Bossuet becomes Joly and Musichetta’s boyfriend, Enjolras is Feuilly’s greatest admirer, and Bahorel… Bahorel just fits.

Grantaire is happy like he’s never been before.

He isn’t lost anymore.

 

 

 What follows are the lyrics as Jean Prouvaire wrote them that week, in the middle of August, 1996.

 

_Whenever I'm alone with you_

_You make me feel like I am home again_

_Whenever I'm alone with you_

_You make me feel like I am whole again_ __  
  


_Whenever I'm alone with you_

_You make me feel like I am young again_

_Whenever I'm alone with you_

_You make me feel like I am fun again_ __  
  


_However far away_

_I will always love you_

_However long I stay_

_I will always love you_

_Whatever words I say_

_I will always love you_

_I will always love you_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't actually write the lyrics, as I have little talent for anything that isn't prose. They're from "Lovesong" by The Cure.
> 
> I would also like to thank two people. First Mariana, because if it weren't for her this fic wouldn't exist. It's her Christmas present, and I know it's bittersweet because it ended, but I love and I hope it still makes you happy.
> 
> And I would also like to thank Ale, who beta-d some of my chapters even though she had important college stuff to do!
> 
> I love you, ladies!
> 
> I'll be seeing you all! x

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked what you read, remember that the treasure to my pirate are your kudos and your comments.
> 
> I don't say this enough, but I started writing this fic for my dear friend Mariana (someonethatcannotlove on tumblr), as a christmas gift. It's thanks to her that this is here, and that it is happy and not full of angst. Although, this one isn't very happy. I promise things will change for the better.
> 
> See you next chapter!


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